Trent face-planted into the duct-taped mats with a brutal thud.
Big Eli tightened his grip just a fraction. A subtle warning. The leverage pressed Trent's face deeper into the floor, cutting off his air supply enough to induce panic but not enough to cause damage.
"Save your breath, son," Eli murmured, his gravelly voice meant only for the boy beneath him.
The crowd was screaming now, a mix of disbelief and raucous cheers. Thirty seconds. Twenty. Trent's frantic struggling turned into exhausted, gasping heaves. The explosive energy of youth was completely neutralized by the immovable patience of old age.
"Time!" Rusty bellowed, chopping his hand down on the bar top. "That's three minutes!"
Big Eli didn't hesitate. The second he heard the word, he released his grip and pushed himself up. His knees cracked loudly as he stood. He didn't look at Trent, who rolled onto his back, chest heaving, his face bright red with exertion and profound embarrassment.
Eli walked calmly to the edge of the mat, stepping carefully back over the ropes. He sat heavily on a wooden stool and began pulling his thick wool socks over his pale, calloused feet.
Rusty walked over, his eyes wide, holding the wad of cash. He counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills. They were wrinkled, damp with sweat, and smelled faintly of beer.
"I'll be damned, Eli," Rusty said quietly, pressing the money into the farmer's large hand. "I'll be goddamned."